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The appointment was Friday.
By some miracle of scheduling, Will only had two classes that day. One was Studio Art, a room full of upperclassmen he trusted enough to survive a single period without him hovering nearby. They’d probably work more efficiently with a sub anyway.
It wasn’t Studio Art he was worried about.
It was Art 1.
Will hated teaching Art 1.
Not because of the actual art. He loved teaching kids who cared, loved watching them realize they were capable of creating something beautiful. But most of the students in Art 1 didn’t want to be there. They took the class because they needed a fine arts credit before graduation, and they treated every assignment like a personal attack. The handful of kids who did care usually suffered for it.
His first year teaching, Will ended up having to report an Art 1 student because he wouldn't stop drawing male anatomy in the margins of his worksheet.
He felt horrible.
So yes, he was worried about Art 1.
Mike wasn’t coming to the appointment. He’d tried to get the day off, but their school was already short staffed, and there was no way administration was approving it. Instead, Mike and Steve were covering Will’s classes during their planning periods.
Small town perks.
Or small town nightmares.
Real substitutes barely existed anymore. If a teacher was out, another teacher got sacrificed to cover. Will always felt guilty when it happened, especially because Mike already worked himself half to death between lesson planning and coaching debate club.
Still, he appreciated it more than he could explain.
Maybe he’d make it up to Mike later.
The thought lingered warmly in the back of his mind as they walked into the teacher’s lounge Thursday morning hand in hand.
They usually kept physical affection subtle at school. Homophobia was better than it used to be, but Will still carried old instincts in his bones like scars. Early mornings were different, though. The building was quiet. Students wouldn’t arrive until 7:50, and first period didn’t start until 8:05.
It felt safe.
Will already had coffee in hand from home in his chipped ceramic mug painted with tiny yellow flowers. He couldn’t stand the burnt taste of the school coffee. Mike, horrifyingly, loved it.
Will teased him about it constantly.
“How’re the lovebirds?” Steve asked from the counter.
He was wearing basketball shorts and an old navy t-shirt despite the fact it was barely fifty degrees outside. Steve Harrington taught gym and health, which apparently meant he’d unlocked the ability to dress like a college freshman permanently.
Will envied him deeply from inside his khakis and button-up.
“We’re good,” Mike said, stretching the words dramatically while waiting behind Steve for the coffee maker.
Will snorted softly and dropped into the lounge’s single comfortable armchair in the corner. Every other seat looked like it had been stolen from a dentist office waiting room sometime in 1987.
There were no chocolate croissants today—which felt frankly offensive—but securing the armchair counted as a win.
“So, Byers,” Steve said, leaning against the counter with his mug. “I’m covering your AP class tomorrow?”
He raised his eyebrows. “I didn’t even know they had AP art.”
Will laughed quietly, rolling his eyes. “They don’t. It’s just easier than explaining portfolio review standards to you.”
“Wow,” Steve muttered. “Mean.”
Mike grinned into his coffee. “He’s stressed. Don’t take it personally.”
Steve’s expression softened almost immediately at the word stressed.
“You okay?” he asked more quietly.
Steve had always cared for all the, even if he didn't always show it.
Will hesitated.
He hated this part. The hovering concern. The waiting. The not knowing.
“Yeah,” he lied automatically.
Mike looked at him over the rim of his mug with that look—the one that said I know you’re lying but I’ll let you have it.
Steve nodded slowly anyway.
“Well,” he said lightly, “I promise not to let your AP kids burn the room down.”
“That’s Art 1 you have to worry about,” Will muttered.
Steve pointed at him. “Absolutely not. Wheeler took that class.”
Mike groaned immediately. “Traitor.”
“Maybe I'll make it up to you later…?” Will suggested, voicing his thoughts from earlier.
“Ew, gross, absolutely not!” Came the immediate protest of Steve.
Will smiled despite himself.
For a second, things felt normal.
By fourth period, Will stood in front of his Studio students with his hands shoved awkwardly into his pockets.
Unlike Art 1, this class actually looked at him when he spoke.
“I’ll be out tomorrow,” he told them. “Mr. Harrington’s covering.”
Several students blinked.
Then one ginger girl near the back slowly raised her hand. “Like… Coach Harrington?”
“Yes,” Will said carefully.
“The gym teacher?”
“Yes.”
A boy in the front who was an avid member of the G.S.A. club Mike and Will ran looked genuinely terrified. “Does he know what we do in here?”
Will pressed his lips together to stop a laugh.
“Your assignments are already posted. You’ll continue working on your concentration pieces. Nobody should be starting anything new.”
Another student frowned. “Can Mr. Harrington even answer questions about portfolio requirements?”
“No,” Will answered honestly.
The room erupted into laughter.
Will smiled a little more this time.
“But,” he continued, “you’re all capable of working independently for one class period. I trust you.”
That quieted them.
Because that was the thing about his Studio students—they cared when he said things like that.
One of the seniors tilted her head slightly. “Everything okay, Mr. Byers?”
Will froze for half a second.
Too perceptive. That was the problem with art kids.
“Yeah,” he said gently. “Just an appointment.”
She looked unconvinced but nodded anyway.
“Don’t let him touch the kiln,” Will added.
That earned another round of laughter.
Art 1 went worse.
Naturally.
Will stood at the front of the room while three students argued over colored pencils and someone in the back was absolutely watching YouTube under the desk.
“I’m out tomorrow,” he announced loudly.
No response.
He clapped twice to get their attention.
“Tomorrow,” he repeated, “Mr. Wheeler will be covering class.”
That got attention.
Mostly because several students groaned dramatically.
“Oh my god, not the English guy.”
“He talks too much.”
“Can we just have a free day?”
Will pinched the bridge of his nose.
“No, you may not have a free day.”
One student raised his hand. “Can we watch a movie?”
“No.”
“What if it’s about art?”
“No.”
“What if—”
“No.”
The student slumped back in his chair.
Will took a slow breath. “You’ll continue the perspective drawings we started yesterday. And before anyone asks, yes, Mr. Wheeler knows the assignment.”
Barely.
A girl near the windows frowned. “Why are you out?”
Will hated how quickly the room quieted after that.
Because suddenly they sounded younger.
“Doctor’s appointment,” he answered simply.
“Oh.”
Someone mumbled, “Hope you don’t die.”
A few kids snickered.
Will stared at them flatly. “Thank you for your concern, Jason.”
Jason shrugged unapologetically.
Still, by the end of class, more than one student quietly told him they hoped things went okay.
Which somehow made him feel worse.
That night was quiet.
Comfortably quiet.
The kind of silence built from years together rather than distance.
Will showered first while Mike cleaned up the kitchen downstairs. Steam curled through the bathroom, fogging the mirror as hot water eased some of the tension from his shoulders. He stayed under it longer than necessary, forehead pressed briefly against cool tile.
Tomorrow.
Everything felt suspended around that word.
When he finally emerged in sweatpants and one of Mike’s old college shirts, Mike was already in bed on his nintendo switch.
“Still awake?” Will asked, amused.
Mike looked up immediately. “Always.”
Will smiled tiredly and crawled under the blankets beside him.
Mike set his switch aside without hesitation.
“You nervous?” he asked quietly.
Will stared at the ceiling.
“Yeah.”
Mike reached over, threading their fingers together beneath the comforter.
“It’s probably nothing.”
Probably.
Will hated probably.
Mike shifted closer until their shoulders touched.
“We’ll deal with it,” he said firmly. “Whatever it is.”
Will turned his head slightly toward him.
Mike looked exhausted. Hair messy. Glasses slipping down his nose. Still wearing the soft hoodie Will stole constantly.
Still here.
Will swallowed hard and leaned in, pressing a slow kiss against Mike’s mouth.
Mike hummed softly against him, warm hands sliding to his waist.
“Is this you thanking me for covering Art 1 tomorrow?” Mike murmured.
Will snorted quietly. “Maybe.”
“Because honestly,” Mike continued, kissing him again, “I deserve compensation for that alone.”
For the first time all day, Will laughed fully.
And later, long after the lights were off and the anxiety started creeping back in around the edges, Mike held him through it without needing to say a word.
Friday morning arrived too quickly.
Will barely slept.
By seven, he was dressed and standing in the bathroom brushing his teeth while Mike fixed his tie in the mirror beside him.
Will spit into the sink and sighed.
“I’ll be okay.”
Mike studied him carefully. “Text me immediately after.”
“I will.”
“Immediately.”
Will smiled faintly. “Okay, mom.”
Mike pointed at him. “I’m serious.”
“I know.”
Downstairs, they moved around each other automatically—Mike packing lunch, Will grabbing his coffee, both functioning on muscle memory.
At the door, Mike caught his wrist gently before he could leave.
“Hey.”
Will looked up.
Mike kissed him softly, one hand warm against his jaw.
“For luck,” he murmured.
Will exhaled shakily.
“Thanks.”
The doctor’s office smelled aggressively clean.
Will hated that too.
He sat in the exam room picking at the edge of the paper covering the table while the fluorescent lights buzzed overhead.
The doctor flipped through his chart.
“So,” she said carefully, “based on the symptoms you’ve described, I’d like to run some bloodwork.”
Will’s stomach dropped.
“Oh.”
“It could be nothing serious,” she added quickly. “But I’d rather be thorough.”
Thorough.
Another word he hated.
“What exactly are you checking for?” he asked quietly.
The doctor explained it calmly—vitamin deficiencies, autoimmune markers, thyroid levels, a few other possibilities.
Will heard maybe half of it.
Blood tests meant possibilities.
Possibilities meant something could actually be wrong.
“We’ll call you with results as soon as we have them,” she assured him.
Will nodded numbly.
A nurse came in a few minutes later to draw blood.
He watched the dark red fill the vials one after another and suddenly felt strangely detached from his own body.
Like he was watching this happen to someone else.
“You doing okay?” the nurse asked gently.
Will blinked.
“Yeah,” he lied automatically.
Again.